Sitting down, he looked at the sterling silverware. Each piece of cutlery had 925 inscribed under it, denoting its purity. The whole set was bought from Tiffany. $1,950. The money came from a job done in Baton Rouge.
“Be right there, sweetie,” Iris said as she transferred hot gravy to a vessel.
“No hurry, Ma. Need a hand?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, Ma,” Ryatt said, pushing himself up. “What you want me to do?”
“Finish everything I’ve cooked for you.”
Ryatt, half-standing, chuckled and sat back down. “My favorite kind of work.”
“Alright.” Iris sat at the head of the table and clasped her hands in front. “Just a moment, please.” Her lips mumbled a prayer. She knew Ryatt had an aversion to everything God related so she didn’t impose.
Yawning noiselessly, Ryatt looked around. His eye settled on a framed photograph on the far wall in the hall. Iris and he were sitting on the steps of a church in the Vatican. Cross European tour, price tag $20,570.
Beside the photo was a framed certificate that had been presented to his mom by the mayor of Detroit for actively participating in cleaning up the city. The ‘Lawrence Fund’ jar had ballooned and become ‘Lawrence Foundation’, as Iris had pumped Ryatt’s earnings into it. She reached out to young boys on the streets, rescued them from drugs and gangs, then got them enrolled in schools in other parts of the country where they could do well.
Ryatt pleaded with her to stop wasting the money. And she had, in an uncharacteristic snit, argued with Ryatt.
She had said, “What good is money?”
“Um… you buy houses, cars, good food, comfortable beds.” Remembering Iris’s wish of getting him married, he played dirty. “And also, girls love a successful man.”
“You buy the most luxurious bed, but you can only sleep for the maximum of eight hours. You buy a whole farm of wheat, vegetables, and fruits, you can only eat what your tummy can hold. And do you really want to be with a person who is impressed by your success, rather than your personality? And even then, you impress one thousand girls with your money, the cars, and designer attire, but you can only have coitus for a limited time…”
Ryatt coughed and spluttered the milk he had been drinking.
“… money isn’t going to buy you happiness. If money is synonymous with contentment, why do so many rich and famous people kill themselves?”
“I don’t know, Ma. It’s really hard to earn. If I’d known you were gonna blow off all the dough, I’d have stopped working long ago and lived off what I’ve saved.”
“No son of mine is going to retire young and slack. That’s irresponsible. God has given you certain abilities to become successful. Even if you are not going to make use of it for yourself, you owe it to the people down on their luck.”
Ryatt had almost rolled his eyes, but stopped as if his mom could see it. He never treated her like a blind person. His heart would never accept it. Poor Iris was better off without the knowledge that it wasn’t God that gave Ryatt the abilities he used to become rich. It was his ex-employee downstairs.
“After a certain amount,” Iris continued, “money is just a unit in the bank. Meaningless digits. Do you want to spend your life adding zeros behind that digit, just stacking on void after void, paradoxically hoping for fulfillment? Or do you want to make a change?”
Ryatt liked to go with the first option, but he knew better than to tell his mom that.
“But Ma…”
“Will you not listen to your mom?” Iris had said.
She had never asked him this question before. Ryatt felt guilty for talking back. He just loved his mom too much to even have this silly conversation. So what if she wanted to spend it all on children on the verge of becoming criminals? Fine.
“Let’s dig in,” Iris said, crossing herself.
“Finally.” Ryatt regarded the contents on the table. A 16-pound turkey, stuffing both traditional and Cajun, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean Casserole, ham, cranberries, and of course, pumpkin pie. $45.20. This money came from a job in Chicago they did last week. Just one dead.
Killing people and living a good life from the profits didn’t bother Ryatt in the least. He was a man and a man’s primary objective was what it had always been: to provide. Ever since men dwelled in caves, they put themselves in constant danger, slaughtering their way to the top of the food chain.
As Iris carved the turkey, Ryatt watched the fork being inserted into the glistening meat and his mind jumped to Bugsy. The last he heard, Bugsy was still alive. The new title the Detroit Alliance bestowed upon him was Don but on the street, he was known as Mr. Scarecrow, not Mr. Hat.
Because doctors had to amputate his arms near the shoulders and legs near his hip.
Befitting but funny monikers aside, he was still the head of the Detroit Alliance. With that came a lot of power and resources, most of which Bugsy diverted to one task: to identify Lolly. But as Ryatt had hid himself pretty well, both before and after the incident, no one was able to find him or his friends.
Thomas had once asked Ryatt why he used the zombie mask Bugsy gave him. Ryatt answered, “So that he knows the same kid who made him a cripple is now the greatest bank robber in North America. It’ll piss him off beyond imagination.”
Ryatt shoved the first forkful into his mouth and thought about how Bugsy would have
